


The Diary of Ms A.Z. Fell, From The Age of Eight to the Present Day

by punkbean



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: F/F, Female-Presenting Aziraphale (Good Omens), Female-Presenting Crowley (Good Omens), Gen, I love young aziraphale with all of my heart and also my lungs, Ineffable Wives, Male-Presenting Crowley (Good Omens), and crowley as well, same goes for every single iteration of aziraphale, transgender character, transgender crowley
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-15
Updated: 2020-02-04
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:01:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22260730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/punkbean/pseuds/punkbean
Summary: "My name is Aziraphale Fell and I am a girl and I am eight years old. I am writing this for a school project to practice writing. I think this is stupid as I can write quite well, but I like Ms Smith so I am doing it anyway."Aziraphale's school diary quickly becomes a place for her to chronicle the friendship between her and her new best friend, Anthony Crowley.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 33
Kudos: 67





	1. Chapter 1

_13th of September, 1974_

Dear Diary,

My name is Aziraphale Fell and I am a girl and I am eight years old. I am writing this for a school project to practice writing. I think this is stupid as I can write quite well, but I like Ms Smith so I am doing it anyway. 

I will write again soon. Goodbye!

~~~~~~

_20th of September, 1974_

Dear Diary,

I am supposed to write to you every day but nothing worth writing about has happened. I did not see the point in writing when I had nothing to write about. But something did happen today, and I would like to write about it so that I remember it forever. 

I made my first proper friend today! He’s called Anthony and he’s new at school. He has red hair which I am quite jealous of. We met because at lunch I gave my biscuit to a girl in year three who had dropped hers. That left me without biscuit, and Anthony gave me his! It was very nice of him, especially as it was shortbread. I am going to make sure to bring him a custard cream tomorrow. 

I hope we sit together tomorrow at lunch. Goodbye! 

~~~~~~

_19th of October, 1974_

Dear Diary, 

I am not very good at writing you regularly. Anthony and I sat together every day at lunch since I last wrote, though! It has been so much fun, having a friend. Usually I eat lunch by myself, but now we sit together, and I give him half of my biscuit and he gives me half of his! His favourite animal is a snake and his favourite colour was red when I met him but recently it has been green. 

Maybe I should start writing more often. We have said that we will be friends forever, and I think I should like to remember these things when we are very old, for example sixteen. 

Bye for now!

~~~~~~

_20th of October, 1974_

I said I would write more often and here I am. I am here because I have big, big news: Anthony has invited me to his birthday party! I have only been to one birthday party before, and that was in year one and it was only because Michael’s mum made her invite everyone in the class. 

Anthony said it isn’t really a party, and that his mum is just putting out crisps and sausage rolls and things, but I can’t wait. I will write to you to tell you about the party! 

~~~~~~

_23rd of October, 1974_

Dear Diary, 

Anthony’s party was last night and it was so much fun! He kept warning me that it wasn’t really a party, and I suppose he was right. It was just him and I, and we had food, and we watched Mary Poppins and drew pictures. I have folded up the picture I drew and put it inside this page. I hope you like it! 

Even if it wasn’t really a party, I had so much fun and I am glad that Anthony is my friend. Mum said that he can come over for dinner one day so I am excited for that! I hope we really do stay friends forever. I don’t want to eat lunch by myself again. 

~~~~~~

_16th of July, 1975_

Dear Diary, 

It has been nearly a year since I last wrote. Sorry! We started a new project at school so I put you in a drawer and rather forgot about writing about things. I am nine now, and I am going to be going into year six after the summer. But guess what: Anthony and I are still friends! He has been over to my house a lot and he likes the bookshop even though he doesn’t like books very much. He came over for my birthday as well!

Every year in the summer holidays, me and mum and dad go down to Brighton for the day, and this year they said Anthony can come with us! I like Brighton but this year I am even more excited to go. I will try to remember to write again soon. 

~~~~~~

_20th of August, 1975_

Dear Diary,

We went to Brighton yesterday! It was so much fun. In the train on the way, me and Anthony drew pictures and we tried to read but it made us both feel funny to read when the train was moving so it was not very productive. It was very hot and we spent most of the day on the beach! Me and Anthony went swimming and we got sausage rolls and dad got us ice creams with a flake. We had fish and chips on the pier for dinner and a seagull nearly got our food but it was okay in the end. 

Anthony and I slept on the train home, and he slept over at mine. Because we’d slept on the train, we didn’t sleep until three o’clock! But we were quiet, as we didn’t want to wake up mum and dad. I wish every day was as nice as yesterday. 

It is nearly a year since I met Anthony! It feels like I have known him forever and ever. I promise that I will write at least once a year from now on to update you on how I am and how things are. See you soon! 

~~~~~~

_20th of December, 1975_

Dear Diary, 

Hello! I know it has been quite a while. I think I will just write to you when I have had a particularly nice day. And perhaps horrible days as well, but I hope there won’t be very many of those. 

Today was a very nice day. I went to town with Anthony and his mum to look at Christmas decorations! Then we went on the ice rink. Me and Anthony weren’t very good at skating but his mum let us hold onto her. Anthony still fell over twice. After that we got cocoa and went home! I found a book about snakes and I am going to give it to Anthony for Christmas. I know he doesn’t like books, but I hope that he likes snakes enough for it to balance out. 

It was very fun. My family are very traditional about Christmas, and the only thing we do is go to mass on Christmas eve. I used to get excited about that because it is the only time I'm allowed to stay up past midnight, but that isn't quite as exciting anymore either. Hopefully I will be able to spend more Christmasses with the Crowleys doing fun things like that! (I hope my parents never find this diary as they would be angry at me for saying mass isn't fun. But God likes honesty and I am only being honest). 

~~~~~~

_20th of September 1979_

Dear Diary, 

Hello! My handwriting is much better now. I suppose that is to be expected – I am thirteen now! I know I said I would write more often, but I left you at Anthony’s house one day when I intended to write you, and then he moved house and I thought you were lost forever. I was very sad about this, as you have some of our photos and drawings. Then I am afraid I rather forgot about you until the other day! Anthony said his mum was going through some old things and she found this. Both of them promised they didn’t read any of it! 

I suppose I should keep with tradition: Anthony and I are still friends! Five years to the day, in fact. That’s why I decided to write, I thought it would be nice to commemorate the anniversary of the day we met. He is not thirteen yet and I like to make fun of him for it. I only have a month left to do that, though. 

He is taller than me now, which is quite upsetting. I used to like being taller. I still love him, though – he is my very best friend in the whole world. I have a couple of other friends as well now that we are in high school, but Anthony is my favourite by far. 

I am awfully glad to have you back. I will try to remember to write again, hopefully sooner than four years this time. 

~~~~~~

_3rd of November, 1979_

Dear Diary, 

Being a teenager is strange. 

Today, Anthony and I got accused of being girlfriend and boyfriend. I love Anthony very much, however I am not his girlfriend. Gabriel said that ‘a boy and a girl can never be just friends’. Anthony said he was an idiot. 

I agree with Anthony. 

~~~~~~

_14th of August, 1980_

Dear Diary, 

A quick update: I am fourteen now. Anthony is still my best friend in the world. I got a bit taller, but Anthony is still taller than me.

I think I have just had the best weekend of my life (so far). I went down to Cornwall with mum and dad, but this year, they said Anthony could come as well! They had booked a holiday home with four spaces and it was so much fun! I think I must have eaten nine hundred pasties. Anthony ate roughly seven times his body weight in fudge. Mum said it is his right to eat so much fudge as he is a growing boy, and he will be fine as long as he brushes his teeth. 

The sea was very blue down there. It makes the Thames look horrible in comparison. Anthony and I went swimming, and we also went rockpooling. Anthony found a very big crab and it nipped him between his thumb and forefinger. 

Despite eating so much fudge, Anthony is still very thin. He has always been a skinny thing. Mum says that I am lovely the way I am, but she has to say that as she is my mum. I am bigger than the other girls at school, though, and I don’t think I would feel comfortable in a skirt as short as they wear. They look nice, but I don’t think I would. I suppose it might be a blessing in disguise, looking unconventional the way I do – I have no interest in going out with anyone, and the way I look rather puts boys off. Apart from Crowley, but he’s different. He doesn’t want to go out with me, he’s my best friend! And he doesn’t care about how I look. 

I never thought I would worry about this kind of thing. Perhaps this is just what teenagers are supposed to worry about, but I would prefer to worry only about what book to read next or which coloured pencils to use. 

~~~~~~

_20th of September, 1982_

Dear Diary, 

I am sixteen, and Anthony is still my best friend, but now he prefers to be called Crowley, which is his surname. I think it suits him quite well! He wears an awful lot of black, and he looks a bit like a human version of a crow if a crow had red hair. He is still just as skinny as ever. He has gotten even taller. It is getting out of hand. I need to reach upwards if I want to put my arm around his shoulders now. 

He is still my favourite person in the whole world, though. If I wrote every time we spent time together, I would write every single day! Now that we’re old enough, after school we sometimes go into town. Crowley is very fashionable and likes to look at clothes. I like to look at books. We indulge each other: I recommend books for Crowley, and he tries to get me to try on clothes. He thinks I would look nice wearing black, and says that my hair would make a good contrast. 

When he stays over at mine, he has to sleep in a sleeping bag on the floor now. I think it is stupid, as does Crowley, but mum says it's for the best now that we're older. As soon as mum and dad are in bed, though, Crowley gets out of the sleeping bag and comes to share my bed instead. He would be stupid not to. A mattress is far more comfortable than a sleeping bag on a hardwood floor. 

Today we have been friends for eight years exactly. Eight years and one day ago, I had no friends at all, and I had no idea I would go on to meet somebody like Crowley the very next day. I still feel awfully lucky. As I said in a previous entry, I have other friends as well, now, but Crowley is still my favourite. He always will be.

~~~~~~

_19th of December, 1983_

Dear Diary, 

I am seventeen. Crowley is still my best friend in the whole universe.

Tonight it was the school Christmas disco. I don’t have much to say, except one little story. I wore a dress, and it was more frivolous than anything I would normally wear. Pale pink and quite puffy. Crowley said I looked nice, and that was all I cared about, really. He wore a suit and looked very dashing. 

Anyway. The disco was fine, and as always I spent most of my time with Crowley. He is a truly terrible dancer. 

We stepped outside the hall to get a drink and some fresh air. Gabriel was outside at the same time. He said some awful things to me. I won’t write them here as I would prefer not to remember them. I planned on walking away, as dad always told me not to give people the satisfaction if they’re awful to me. Crowley did something much more satisfying, though. Gabriel had barely finished his sentence and Crowley punched him. Really hard. It gave him a bloody nose. Gabriel punched back and gave Crowley a black eye. 

All three of us got kicked out, but Crowley and I weren’t even upset. I felt bad that he was hurt, but he didn’t care. He said it was worth it for an excuse to punch Gabriel. On the way home we got some chips, and Crowley came over for a while. Mum and dad were aghast when they saw his black eye, but when we explained what had happened, mum left the room very quickly and I suspect she went for a cry. Dad gave Crowley a pat on the shoulder and tried to act gruff about it. 

I feel even luckier than ever to have Crowley as a friend. 

~~~~~~

_20th of June, 1984_

Dear Diary,

I am eighteen years old and Crowley is still my best friend. 

Last night it was the summer ball. There were no incidents this time, but Crowley kept making little jabbing gestures in Gabriel’s direction which made me laugh. I wore a lovely dress – it was off the shoulder and pale blue and the skirts fanned out when I span. Although we’re not boyfriend and girlfriend, I went as Crowley’s date. He looked incredibly lovely in a suit, and he even had a tie to match my dress. And one of those little tissue things that men put in their jacket pockets. 

We danced all night long. Crowley is still an awful dancer and I am afraid I’m not much better. My feet hurt terribly today but it is all worth it. It is probably the last time I will ever see most of the people from school, but not Crowley. We are going to Paris together over the summer to celebrate our leaving school! 

People still constantly assume that we are a couple. We don’t correct them anymore – it’s too much trouble. We just agree and then try to make each other laugh with progressively sillier pet names. If I were forced to settle down with any boy, I know without a doubt that it would be Crowley. I love him with all my heart. 

I am starting university in September, which I am very excited about! Crowley is also starting university, but he is not so excited. He says he isn’t sure he’ll stay on, and I said I will support him no matter what. Dad says that if he needs time to work out what to do with himself, he can work in the bookshop. 

Life isn’t perfect by any means, but I still feel very lucky. 

~~~~~~

_16th of August, 1984_

Bonjour, Diary! 

I am writing to you in Paris! We are in a hotel room. It is really only a bed and a bathroom, but that’s all we need. Our flight was at 8am, so as soon as he saw the bed, Crowley fell asleep. He is snoring very quietly at my side. It’s really quite sweet. 

He has promised to take me out for crêpes later! I am going to buy him some wine to drink. He’s still seventeen, so is relying on me for that kind of thing. Since August is right between both of our birthdays, we like to do things together. Of course we also get each other presents on our actual birthdays, too! 

Next month it will be ten years since the day we met. Isn’t that exciting? In some ways it feels like just yesterday. I don’t know what I would do without him. I must be the luckiest girl in the world. 

~~~~~~

_23rd of August, 1984_

Dear Diary, 

We are back from Paris! And I am still eighteen and Crowley is still my best friend. 

He was ever so lovely in Paris. Not only did he treat me to crêpes, he also bought me more macarons than I could shake a stick at. Also lots of croissants and brioche and so many delicious things! I bought him drinks and a tacky postcard with cats all over it which he adored. 

It was such a lovely holiday. Even better than the time we went to Cornwall (although I adored that as well). I hope we get to go on many more holidays in the future! 

~~~~~~

_20th of September, 1984_

Dear Diary, 

I am still eighteen years old and Crowley has been my best friend for ten years exactly! Can you believe it? 

I let him see some of the photos and drawings I have hidden in your pages today. We had thought about going out to dinner somewhere nice, but decided we’d have more fun getting a takeaway and some wine and eating in. So we sat in my room all evening and drank and ate and reminisced and laughed. 

He laughed like a drain at my old drawings, the silly thing. Asked why I’d made myself look like a sheep and him like a vulture. He was trying to poke fun at me, but I took it as quite the compliment to eight-year-old Aziraphale’s artistic flair. It’s probably quite close to what she was aiming for. 

To commemorate the occasion, we have each drawn a picture of ourselves, which I will keep in this page. I will also keep a photo of the two of us. We were a bit drunk when it was taken, so we are both quite red, but I am sure you can find it in yourself to forgive me, diary. 

~~~~~~

_17th of February, 1985_

Dear Diary, 

I am still eighteen, Crowley is still my best friend.

Crowley has officially dropped out of uni. I think he’s been putting on a brave face about it for quite a while. I also think he would still be putting himself through it if I hadn’t forced him to admit that he hated it. 

He is upset and says that he feels like a failure. I gave him a good poke in the ribs for saying that, and made sure that he knew that I adore him and he could never be a failure to me. And reminded him that he can work in the bookshop if he wants, and if not, anyone would be lucky to have him as an employee. 

I think he was taken by surprise that I was so aggressive with my points, but I also think it drove the point home that I meant it, so it’s certainly no bad thing. Perhaps one day I’ll put aside my pride and let him read this diary so that he can see exactly how much I’ve gushed over how much I adore him over the years. Not until we’re in our sixties at the very earliest, though – he’d make fun of me otherwise. 

Anyway. I thought it was worth updating you about. Bye for now! 

~~~~~~

_13th of July, 1985_

Dear Diary, 

I am nineteen, and Crowley is still my best friend. 

Today was rather special. Crowley’s been rather down in the dumps since he dropped out of uni, and I’ve been trying to think of ways to cheer him up ever since. But then some tickets to a certain concert fell into my lap. 

I’m not particularly into music. I like it well enough, but Crowley _really_ likes it. He blasts Queen whenever he gets the chance. I don’t mind, because I like Queen, especially their lovely slower songs. He prefers the fast ones, though, because of course he does. 

Anyway. I managed to get a hold of some tickets for Live Aid, and took Crowley as a surprise! It was a terribly long day, and my legs and feet are really quite sore, but it’s worth it. We saw David Bowie, Elton John and Ultravox, and they were all very good, but Queen were the best by far. Partly because their music was very good, but also because Crowley was beside himself. 

I don’t mean to make it sound like he’s a miserable person, but it’s rare to see him smile properly. He favours a little smirky thing. He still looks lovely, but it makes it even more special when I see him smile properly. And he didn’t stop all day long today. From the moment the stadium came into view to the moment his head hit the pillow. Although if I turn my head just so, he still looks a bit like he’s smiling now. Mostly, he’s just taking up nearly all of my bed, though. Lanky old thing. 

It was dreadfully hot, especially all huddled into the middle of the crowd, but Crowley didn’t let go of me for even a moment. I worried about being sweaty, but about halfway through Sting’s set I realised that everyone in the crowd was sweaty. No point in worrying about it. 

Lots of tangents today. All of that to say I had a lovely time, and it was lovely to see Crowley smiling again. He really does mean the world to me, as I must have said a million times. 

~~~~~~

_21st of June, 1987_

Dear Diary, 

I am twenty years old (I will be twenty one next week), and Crowley is still my best friend in the world!

Well, it’s been an awfully long time, hasn’t it? I’m afraid uni got quite busy, and I was working in the shop during the summers. It’s been very busy, but lovely. And you’ll never guess what: I’m graduating tomorrow! It has been difficult, but I got an A for my dissertation which pulled my marks up quite a bit. 

I got three tickets to the graduation ceremony, and it’s just me and mum and dad, so naturally Crowley is coming as well. He’s promised to make quite a ruckus when I walk across the stage which I’m looking forward to. 

Crowley has been working in a cafe for the past while. He’s very good at making coffee, but he doesn’t really put on much of a front for the customers. If someone’s rude to him, he’s rude back. His manager doesn’t mind, thankfully. It’s lucky for me, as well: his cafe isn’t too far from the bookshop, so when he finishes work he often comes over with some of the unsold cakes for me. 

I would have been happy to be his friend anyway all those years ago, not that I had much choice, but it would have been double the motivation if I’d known he’d be bringing me free scones and muffins more than a decade later! 

I don’t mean to minimise our friendship. He means an awful lot more to me than free cakes. 

~~~~~~

_23rd of June, 1987_

Dear Diary,

I am still twenty, and Crowley is still the best person in the whole wide world. 

Graduation was very fun. I think it was quite a lot of fuss for what was really quite a quick walk across the stage, but it was good nonetheless. Most people just walked across the stage to light applause and maybe a couple of cheers from their family and friends, but just as he promised, Crowley really did kick up quite a storm.

The moment they said my name, he stood up and started stamping and shouting. The same way he does when he takes me along to his concerts. I think I might have heard him say that he’s my number one fan. I also think I might know how Freddie Mercury feels. If I had a whole stadium of people shouting my name like that, I might strut around that way no matter where I was. 

My parents were quite embarrassed, but I don’t care. It made me feel very special. And he gave me what must have been the world’s biggest hug when I managed to track them down after the ceremony. We took lots of photos, and I’ve attached my favourite one. He said he was never going to graduate, so he wanted to put on my hat and robes. He looked lovely (as you can see). 

Though I’d never force him to go to uni if he doesn’t want to, I know that if he does, I’ll be in the audience when he graduates, making as much of a ruckus as I can. 

~~~~~~

_24th of June, 1987_

Hello again! Still twenty, Crowley still my best friend, all of that.

I just remembered that in all of my whimsy, I forgot to talk about the rest of the day! We took lots and lots of photos, and my friends from uni all assumed that Crowley was my boyfriend, of course. Crowley didn’t correct them, and spent the rest of the day using over-the-top pet names and snaking his arm around me at every opportunity. I tried to act put-upon, but it was terribly funny.

My parents took us out to dinner, and Crowley and I drank too much, then Crowley and I went for drinks and drank even more. My head was pounding yesterday, which is probably why I wrote so much nonsense. 

It was very much worth it, though. I still feel the same way about Crowley as I always have: I adore him with all my heart, but he’s my best friend and nothing more. But I also think that if we were living in another time, he and I would most certainly be married. In fact, at our age, we’d probably have at least two children by now. What an odd thought. 

~~~~~~

_20th of September, 1989_

Dear Diary, 

I am twenty three years old, and Crowley is still my best friend! 

I rather regret leaving you on such a strange note. I wish I’d tacked an extra sentence or two on the end of that last entry. 

Fifteen years to the day since we first met! I’m terribly happy. Crowley is coming over later and, per tradition, we’re going to get a takeaway and drink unlawful amounts of wine. 

In order to broaden my horizons a bit, I’m living in a little flat in Holloway and working in a small bookshop there! My parents said I could just work in the family shop, and I am grateful, but I didn’t want to just live in the same flat and work in the same shop for my whole life. I’m only half an hour away, but it’s still somewhere else. 

Crowley comes over a lot, of course, and I go to visit him as well. It’s nice being able to stay up all night and giggle over things without worrying about waking up parents. Makes us feel like real adults! He splits his time quite evenly between the cafe and a florist now. He says he’s ‘exploring his options’ for the future, which sounds very sensible. 

The buzzer is going, and I assume that’s Crowley, so I’d better hide you and go and let him in. Bye bye! 

~~~~~~

_26th of June, 1991_

Dear Diary, 

I turned twenty five today, and it was such a lovely day. Crowley is still my best friend, naturally. 

He has a car now! It’s a little black boxy thing, but it’s still a car. And he took me down to Brighton! He said he wanted to go somewhere a bit more fancy, but I assured him that Brighton was perfect. It was the first place we went for a day trip all those years ago, after all!

We did nearly the same things we did last time we went. Sat on the beach, went for a swim, had ice cream and fish and chips. It’s rather different now, though – there are rides on the pier! Crowley insisted that we go on some big spinny thing. It didn’t really affect me, but poor Crowley nearly threw up when we got off. I suggested that he go on the little snail rollercoaster thing meant for children and he got all huffy with me until I reminded him that it was my birthday. 

I think most of the reason he likes having a car is that he gets to control the music. All Queen all the way, of course. I’m surprised he has a voice left at all considering the way he sings. He’s not very good, either (that only makes it more charming, but don’t tell him I said that). I like being in the car with him, though. It’s like being in a little world of our own where nobody else can hear us. 

I really do treasure every moment with him. It’s been such a long time, nearly 17 years! But I still do count myself incredibly lucky to have him as a friend. He’s very cool and fashionable and funny, and I should think he could choose anyone in London to be friends with, but I’m still his favourite. 

That sounds terribly self-indulgent, but it’s my birthday. I think I’m allowed. 

~~~~~~

_24th of November, 1991_

Dear Diary, 

I’m still twenty five, Crowley is still my dearest friend.

What a horrid day. 

If Crowley didn’t already wear only black clothes, he certainly would now. Freddie Mercury has died. The last time I saw him cry, I think he was nine and he skinned his knee on the gravel in the playground. It was a nasty injury, and I would have been surprised if he didn’t cry. 

He tried to put on a brave face for a while. Acted like everything was fine, as he always does. We were sitting in his flat and drinking, and as usual, we put some music on. He was absolutely fine until we got to that ‘I don’t want to die’ line in Bohemian Rhapsody. He looked away and got all strange and sniffly, and all it took was me reaching over to squeeze his elbow for him to cry properly. 

I don’t think I would have cried over his death in any other situation, but seeing Crowley cry rather set me off. We must have sat like that for a good long while, him crying into my shoulder and me making his hair all wet. We only stopped because his horrible flatmate came home. Crowley said he would have made fun of him for weeks if he’d been seen crying, so he quickly wiped his eyes and turned around to pour us some more wine. 

We retreated to his room soon after that, as neither of us wanted to talk to Hastur. Now he’s sprawled across his bed, and his head is pressed against my leg. It might sound strange, considering he’s a six foot tall man and I’m a five foot seven lady, but seeing him cry today made me realise that I’m really quite protective of Crowley. Of course there are some things I can’t protect him from, like grief and general sadness, as those things need to be felt. But I think I might have to train up somehow, because if anybody tried to hurt him physically I might have to defend him. 

Perhaps we should try and get a flat together. It would stop us from complaining to each other at all hours about our respective horrible flatmates. And every night would be like a sleepover! I don’t think we’d get sick of each other, either. We spend just about every spare moment together as it is. 

I’ll propose it to him at some point soon. 

~~~~~~

_20th of September, 1994_

Dear Diary, 

I’m twenty eight now (which still feels strange to say, even after being this age for nearly three months), and Crowley is still my best friend on the planet. 

He’s been my friend for precisely twenty years! A much more cheerful thing than my last entry. Perhaps it’s because of this little diary, but I still remember it as if it were yesterday. He brought me a big tin of shortbread to commemorate the occasion. It might sound as if I have low expectations of Crowley, but I’m surprised he remembers such details. Then again, I suppose that’s like a bit of reassurance that I mean as much to him as he means to me. 

We’re breaking tradition tonight. Rather than having takeaway and wine, he’s taking me out. He hasn’t said where, but the fact that he’s being so weird and secretive makes me excited. He’s singing horribly in the kitchen and he thinks I’m getting ready, so I suppose I’d better go and get ready. I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow, I promise! 

~~~~~~

_21st of September, 1994_

Dear Diary, 

Yesterday was absolutely heavenly. 

Crowley had somehow managed to convince his father to let him borrow his big fancy car. A Bentley. Vintage and from the 30s, or so I’m led to believe. Crowley isn’t one of those strange men who likes cars more than he likes people, but he loves that thing. I have attached a photo of the two of us and the car. It is quite a beautiful thing, as cars go. 

And he took me to the Ritz for dinner! He insisted on paying for everything as well. Silly thing. We drank champagne and shared a crème brûlée and just had the loveliest time. And afterwards, we came back to my flat and drank some more wine and listened to Queen and danced and talked, just as we have for the past twenty years. 

I should also clarify. My last entry made it sound as if Crowley and I are living together. Unfortunately, we’re not. He agreed that it would be lovely, but we’ve never managed to find a flat that would be convenient for both of us that we could both afford, and the timing has never been particularly good. We still spend nearly all of our time together, though, which is more than I can possibly ask for. 

I look forward to the next twenty years! Maybe on the fortieth anniversary of our meeting I’ll take him out somewhere. Perhaps Paris again. Or further afield. I’ve got a good while to think of it, anyway. 

~~~~~~

_20th of August, 1996_

Dear Diary, 

I am thirty years old (how scary!), and Crowley is still my best friend in the whole world. 

I have just returned home from the loveliest trip with him. August falls directly between both of our birthdays, so we thought we’d celebrate our turning thirty with something special. We went to Italy this time! I ate an absolutely extraordinary amount of pasta. And gelato. And little pastry things. And we drank an incredible amount of wine. 

Crowley really is ageing well. I kept catching people looking at him, and it’s no wonder! He’s still a skinny tall thing, and he carries it terribly well. All sharp lines and angles. Quite the opposite of me. When I caught people looking at him, I’d next catch them glaring at me for being with him. Perhaps ten years ago it would have upset me or made me feel self-conscious, but now it doesn’t bother me in the slightest. I adore Crowley, and I know that he adores me, no matter how much pasta I eat and how much I don’t like running. 

He’s still his old mischievous self, too. He asked if we could go into the Vatican so that he could pretend the floor was burning his feet. I told him that if he did that, I’d have no choice but to carry him, but that didn’t put him off. Thankfully, we didn’t end up going in as the queue was probably more than a mile long. 

We really did have a marvellous time, regardless. I can’t believe I’m thirty, and Crowley constantly reminds me that he’s still a young thing in his twenties, but I don’t care. In a couple of months he’ll be ancient just like me. 

~~~~~~

_29th of November, 1997_

Dear Diary, 

I am now thirty one years old, and Crowley is still my best friend.

I’m afraid I seem to be writing you less and less as the years go on. I keep intending to write, but then I get busy or get distracted or I fall asleep and then I forget again for a little while. Work has been terribly busy. Not just hectic busy, either. Busy enough that I’m thinking of leaving my job to go and work in the family bookshop. My parents would like that – they’ve been dropping hints that they’d like to go travelling, so I’d have the place to myself. It’s terribly tempting. 

But I’ll get to why I’m writing: I’m worried about Crowley. He’s been terribly withdrawn lately. I still see him lots and lots, and I know he was never the biggest chatterbox in the world, but he’s been even quieter than usual lately. I keep catching him staring into space as if he’s a million miles away. I’ve tried asking him what’s wrong, of course, but you know what he’s like. Even with me, he throws his walls up as soon as he thinks someone’s worried about him. 

I sometimes have a horrible tendency to prattle on and try to fill any silences I come across, but I’ve been trying to stop myself from doing that. The best thing I can think of doing is to give him the space and the opportunity to come to me when he feels ready to talk about whatever is bothering him. 

Perhaps it will blow over without me doing anything. It could be his job or his flatmates or something, but then I don’t see why he wouldn’t talk to me about those things. He’s never held back about them before.

Perhaps he’s got a girlfriend and he’s nervous about telling me. I would understand why, but I’d have to reassure him that he has no reason to be nervous. I adore him regardless of whether or not he has a romantic partner. 

I’m going to read back through all of my entries to see if inspiration strikes. I’ll let you know if I find anything out, in any case. 

~~~~~~

_20th of September, 1998_

Dear Diary, 

I am thirty two years old, and Crowley is still my best friend. 

I’m afraid to say that nothing much has changed since my last entry. I’ve been trying to coax him into talking, and he hasn’t budged in the slightest. If you noticed the date, however, you’ll know that today was the twenty fourth anniversary of our meeting! 

Even if it was just for one night, it felt as if things were back to the way they used to be. We did the traditional thing and had takeaway and wine. Per my last entry, I am living in the old flat above the family bookshop again! Mum and dad have gone travelling, they are in Portugal at the moment, so Crowley and I had the place to ourselves which was lovely. It felt just like being children again! 

As well as the usual listening to Queen and dancing and reminiscing, we looked through old photos. Mum keeps old photos in a big box, filed year by year, and from 1974 onwards, Crowley is in nearly as many of them as I am. He thought it was awfully funny to piece together photos of us from over the years to track him becoming taller and taller than me. 

As much as I’ve been worried about him for so long, today made it feel like everything might just be alright again. And even if it isn’t, hopefully it’s reminded him that he means the world to me and that he can talk to me about anything at all. 

~~~~~~

_24th of September, 1998_

Dear Diary, 

I don’t know what to do. Crowley’s gone. 

I’ve tried phoning him, and there’s no answer. I went to his flat, and his flatmates said he’d left without saying anything, and taken his things with him. 

The last time I saw him was our anniversary. He was acting strangely when we got up in the morning. He was even quieter than he has been, which is really saying something. I made him poached eggs, and when he’d had those, he packed up to leave, and he gave me an awfully big hug and told me that he loved me. 

At the time, I thought he was just being lovely and that it might be his way of apologising for being so odd over the past few months (not that he needs to apologise). Now, though, I’m worried that it was something bigger and that I was too stupid to see it. 

I’m terribly sorry for the little water stains all over the page. It feels like all I’ve done over the past couple of days is cry and try every avenue I can think of to find Crowley. I’m worried that I’ve exhausted them all, though, and that leaves me with only crying. 

I’ve closed the shop for a few days, but I’ll have to open it again at some point. Perhaps it will be good to take my mind off things for a short while, but I’m worried that I’ll start crying if a customer tries to talk to me. 

All I can do is try, I suppose. I’ll let you know the moment I find him. 

~~~~~~

_20th of September, 1999_

Dear Diary, 

I am now thirty three years old, and I still don’t know where Crowley is. 

I desperately hoped I’d write again sooner. That Crowley would show up at the shop and say it had all been a joke, and I’d smack him on the arm but give him the tightest hug possible and tell him never to do that again. 

But that’s not the case. I don’t know where he is. I’ve tried everything I can think of, and he’s nowhere to be found. I still cry about it fairly often, and I’m not sure I’ll ever stop. 

I spoke to one of my friends about it. An old colleague from the bookshop in Holloway. She assumed that he’d been my boyfriend and that it had been a bad breakup, and that almost made me feel worse – he was so much more than a boyfriend. Is so much more, I should say.

Perhaps it would be easier if I had some closure. If I knew where he’s gone, or at least why he’s gone. The wondering is the worst part. 

Anyway. It’s the twenty-fifth anniversary of the day we met. And it’s the first time in as many years that I’ve spent the twentieth of September by myself. 

I shall stop writing now. I don’t want to cry too much all over you and get your pages wrinkled. 

I shall write you when I find Crowley and not a moment sooner. I’m afraid it will be too painful to write every year on this date without him. 

I desperately hope that I will see you soon, diary. I’d become rather used to having a best friend, and I’m not sure I’m ready to confront life again without him. 


	2. Chapter 2

Aziraphale shut the old diary with a resolute thud and a frantic sniff. 

No matter how many years went by, she still cried when she thought of Crowley. Now and then, she’d read through all the things she’d written when she was much younger. It was a funny feeling. The memories were happy ones – deliriously happy, some of them. But then as she read on, a horrible feeling of dread settled like a stone in her stomach. 

She knew exactly when to stop reading, of course. the twentieth of September, 1998. The last time she’d seen Crowley. She refused to read the entries after that, though. There was almost nothing worse than having to remember the cold fear that had gripped her when he’d disappeared. 

She’d still never heard from him. Even now, with the Internet taking off in such a big way. She’d spent hours on Facebook, trawling through every ‘Anthony Crowley’ profile and looking out for a familiar face. No such luck, of course. 

Mostly, though, she got on with life. She wasn’t particularly happy or particularly sad. She just was. She ran the bookshop, she treated herself to nice food. 

On the twentieth of September every year, she spent the day trying not to cry. 

Today was particularly bad. It was the twentieth of September, 2014. Forty years to the day since she’d met Crowley. She’d woken up with an unpleasant feeling in her stomach, and it hadn’t gone away. When she’d read her diary entry about their twentieth anniversary, she’d let out an embarrassing little sob. She’d promised to do something really special for Crowley for their fortieth, and if things had been slightly different, she’d be with him now. Perhaps somewhere warm and lovely like the south of France. 

But she wasn’t. She was in overcast, humid London and she was by herself. She knew she’d do the same thing she did every year. It felt a bit like self-sabotage, but it was like a sad little tradition for her now, and she’d hate to break it. 

She’d already read the diary. Next, she’d go and force herself to have some breakfast, despite awful feelings taking up all the room in her stomach. She’d have a shower and listen to Queen, which would make her cry. Then she’d get dressed and take herself out for a walk,

As she walked, she would remind herself that she wasn’t always this sad. That not every day was this difficult. It was just that this day in particular held a lot of emotional poignancy, and she didn’t see fit to ignore that. 

She passed all the places she and Crowley used to frequent. Their old schools, the chippy they used to go to, the park where they’d feed the ducks after school, the offices that used to be a bizarre clothes shop that Crowley liked, the coffee shop Crowley used to work at. 

It all felt horribly lonely. 

She had friends, of course. Or…well. To be honest, she had acquaintances and one proper friend. Anathema had been at university with her, and they’d reconnected a couple of years after Crowley had disappeared. It was nice, and they met for coffee most weeks, but it just wasn’t the same. It was oddly sterile. Or perhaps professional was a nicer word for it. They could chat for hours and hours about books, but they never strayed into personal things. Aziraphale had met Anathema’s boyfriend once or twice, and he was perfectly nice. Anathema had asked after Crowley once, and Aziraphale had brushed it off, not wanting to get upset and risk driving Anathema away. 

On good days, she sometimes forgot. She’d get lost in the swing of work and something would happen and even after all these years, she’d think ‘I can’t wait to tell Crowley’, and then the ache would come back full force when she remembered that Crowley wasn’t there to tell. 

When she’d been particularly lonely, she’d downloaded Tinder. It had never gone anywhere, though. Partly because she’d never quite worked out how to label her own sexuality, and partly because she wasn’t entirely comfortable with the way she looked. 

At a surface level, she knew it was silly. She knew she was fat. She’d never been thin. She certainly didn’t go around all day pinching her stomach and wishing it were flat or anything like that. She was comfortable enough in herself, she just struggled to believe that anyone else could find her attractive. 

This wasn’t a big problem, however. Dating wasn’t a priority. She wasn’t particularly interested in having children, and she wasn’t desperate to get married or anything like that. It only stung when she saw family or old friends and they constantly asked why she wasn’t yet married at the ripe old age of 48. 

She’d rather lost faith in god. She’d never been as religious as her parents. The collection of bibles with typos she kept in the shop was about the most religious thing she’d done since her first communion. When Crowley had disappeared, however, she’d tried praying. Nothing had come of it. 

When she’d been very young, she’d always thought of God as someone who wouldn’t let anything bad happen. Or at least she’d only let bad things happen to bad people (because, of course, God was a woman). Now that she was older, she understood that it had a bit more nuance than that. You couldn’t make blanket statements about God of all people (deities? beings?). 

She wished desperately that faith had been able to help her more when things were at their worst, but then she wished desperately that anything had been able to help. 

Usually, a bit of September sunshine breaking through the clouds would have cheered her up, but today she wished it was raining. Then at least she could have done the embarrassing thing and pretended to be one of those beautiful women crying in the rain in a romantic film. 

She couldn’t do that, though. She had a home to get back to, and a good book to read. But it was still early, and the thought of being in the shop all by herself still stung. She eyed the cafe where Crowley used to work, thinking longingly of all the times he’d slunk out of those doors with a paper bag full of sweet treats. She was surprised the place was still open, with all the changes the area had gone through. Perhaps it was testament to how very good the scones were. 

She was sorely tempted to go in, but not today. Today would be too much. Instead, she resolved to go to the little cafe across the road from her shop. It was perfectly nice, and the baristas sometimes let her have her coffee for free in the spirit of community. 

Pity she couldn’t give them free books, really. Even one book given away for free would rather knock the shop’s profits, though. Perhaps she’d have to get some cheaper books in so she could give out little discounts. 

It felt like a relief to be worrying about the bookshop. She strolled along in a little world of her own, weighing up the pros and cons of selling only expensive antique books. She didn’t like the shop being very busy, but it wouldn’t hurt to have just a few more people through the door every day. She’d just have to be extra watchful. Maybe if they did well enough out of the cheaper books, she could hire someone to give her a hand. 

As lost as she was in her thoughts, her head wasn’t entirely in the clouds. She did live in London, after all, and she was used to negotiating throngs of tourists. She stepped aside to avoid a group of rather loud Americans, and nearly fell over the bonnet of an expensive-looking car. 

She paused for a moment to make sure she hadn’t dented the thing. The last thing she needed was to have to pay damages to some overpaid businessman. The bonnet was fine, thank goodness. It was an old car, one of the sturdy ones that would take a fast collision to dent. 

But when she made to keep walking, she took another look at the car and froze. It was a very old car. Perhaps from the 30s. 

She took a step back and crashed into some tourists who had been taking photos of a nice-looking building. She didn’t care to apologise, though – the car was familiar to her because she’d been looking at a photo of it that very morning. A photo from exactly twenty years ago. A photo of herself and Crowley, leaning against this very car. 

A thought struck her. Maybe it had been something more than nostalgia tempting her to go into the cafe before. Maybe it was fate. So without further ado, she turned away from the car and ran back the way she’d come. 

She wasn’t a natural runner, to say the least. She wasn’t the fastest, and she had one arm braced across her chest to stop her breasts from bouncing painfully. Outside the cafe, she took a moment to compose herself. Smooth down her hair and her shirt, taking a few deep breaths. 

When she let herself in, she scanned the room quickly. Yes, it had been a long time, but she knew without a doubt that she’d recognise Crowley. None of the customers had red hair, though. None of them looked tall and thin and none of them had a lovely aquiline nose. But she wasn’t about to give up hope after running all this way. 

She approached the counter. “Excuse me,” she said, a bit embarrassed of how breathless she sounded. “This might be an odd request. Has a gentleman with red hair been here? In the last couple of hours or so. He’s tall and thin.” 

The barista scrunched up her nose. To her credit, though she seemed taken aback by the question, she did seem to be considering it. “I don’t think so,” she said with an apologetic smile. “I’d probably remember someone like that.” 

Of course she would. Crowley probably still looked like a model. 

“Ah. Well. Sorry to bother you, then,” Aziraphale said. As she turned to leave, her gaze lingered on the scones for a moment, and she’d never been one to resist temptation. She ordered one with raspberries and white chocolate. It had been her favourite when Crowley had worked there, and with any luck, they’d still be half as good. 

As she walked back, she felt rather stupid. Getting her hopes up over a car of all things. It was a  _ car!  _ It had been Crowley’s father’s car, anyway. And he might have sold it. It meant nothing, and she shouldn’t have got her hopes up. 

She tucked her little brown paper bag into her jacket pocket as she walked. At least she had a scone to look forward to. She still kept an eye out for familiar red hair as she went, even though she felt it was futile.

Since she’d planned to do so anyway, she took a little detour into the cafe across the road before going home. After some consideration, she ordered something very sweet with cream on top. It was a special day, after all. When the barista tried to insist on giving Aziraphale the coffee for free, she put three pounds in the tips jar instead. 

And after all that, on the way out of the cafe, she collided with another woman and spilled most of the silly thing down the front of her dress. A lovely black lacy dress, too. It looked vintage. 

“I’m so sorry,” Aziraphale managed to say, pressing down on the lid of her coffee as if she could force the spilt liquid back into the cup. She couldn’t seem to take her eyes off the coffee as it dripped its way down the lady’s stomach. “I’ll…oh, goodness. We can exchange details. I’ll pay for your dry cleaning,” she said, and she waved a hand uselessly in the direction of the stain. 

“Aziraphale,” the lady said. Not a question, but a statement. 

Aziraphale looked up. The poor thing looked like a rabbit in the headlights. “I’m so sorry. Is it…is it hot? I can…do…something,” she said, but trailed off. 

This lady knew her name. 

She didn’t know this lady’s name. 

It wasn’t often that Aziraphale forgot a face, so she looked up. And when she looked – really looked, not just at her expression but at her features – it felt like a vice clamping shut around her heart. 

“Crowley?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper. 

She was so very tall. Tall and beautiful. Lovely cheekbones. Sharp nose. A few more wrinkles than she remembered, but she could say the same for herself. Now, though, red hair fell in elegant waves to her chest. She wore makeup better than Aziraphale had ever attempted to. 

But it was still her Crowley. She'd never forget those eyes. 

She’d always told herself that if she ever saw Crowley again, she’d play it cool. She’d ask where she’d been. Maybe try and make her feel a bit guilty for leaving without an explanation. 

In reality, though, she threw her arms around her, mindless of the cappuccino all over her dress. 

Crowley went stiff for the briefest of moments, but then she snaked her arms around Aziraphale, pressing her nose into her hair the way she always had. 

Aziraphale tried her best not to cry. Really, she did. But when she spoke again, her voice was thick with tears, and she was at risk of further ruining Crowley’s dress the way her face was pressed into her shoulder. “I’m so angry at you,” she told her, trying and failing to hold back a sob. 

Crowley sounded awfully sniffly, and her hand was petting shakily down Aziraphale’s back.”I deserve it,” she said with a wet-sounding laugh. 

As much as she wanted to never let go, they were rather blocking the doorway, so Aziraphale shuffled them both sideways. “Shall I…hm. Wait. Should I still be calling you Crowley, or is there something else you prefer?” she asked softly. She let go of Crowley, but slid her hands down from her elbows to her wrists to her hands so that she could link their fingers together. 

“Crowley’s fine,” said Crowley, squeezing their fingers together even tighter. “Changed it to Lilith. But Crowley's fine."

"Lilith," Aziraphale echoed. It felt right on her tongue. "What a charming name. It certainly suits you," she said fondly. She wouldn't say that Crowley looked like she belonged in one of those beautiful renaissance paintings of the original Lilith, but she was certainly thinking it. 

Whatever Crowley had been about to say was interrupted by the barista behind them. “Here’s another coffee, Aziraphale. Replace the one you got all over your friend,” she said, sliding a second takeaway cup over to her. 

Aziraphale had all but forgotten about the incident in all the excitement. Her own shirt and trousers were covered in coffee now, but she couldn't bring herself to care. “Will you let me pay for this one?” she asked, taking the replacement cup sheepishly. 

“Absolutely not. And can I get your friend anything?” she asked. 

Crowley ordered a flat white and tried to pay, but the barista insisted on giving it to her for free since she was a friend of Aziraphale’s. 

They strolled across the road to the bookshop arm in arm, as they had hundreds of times before. Just not for the past sixteen years or so. 

Aziraphale’s heart was pounding, but she was almost relieved for having covered them both with coffee. At least it gave her something to think about other than the fact that she had Crowley back. 

“Right. First order of business. Clothes,” she said, and it felt as if she were talking to herself, but Crowley was a lovely, sharp, familiar presence at her elbow. “I think I’ve still got some of your old pyjamas if you’d like to wear those,” she offered, then hesitated. “Or would that make you feel funny? Maybe you’d prefer something of mine.” But any of Aziraphale’s clothes, especially pyjamas, would hang off Crowley’s skinny frame almost ridiculously. 

Crowley was looking at her with an odd expression. It wasn’t one Aziraphale had ever seen her wear. “You kept my pyjamas?” she asked. “After all this time?” 

Aziraphale shrugged. She felt as if she should be embarrassed, but she found that she really wasn’t. “I couldn’t get rid of them, Crowley. I thought about it a couple of times, but I’d take them out of the drawer and remember all the times you stayed over and couldn’t bring myself to throw them out.”

They were in the bedroom now. Crowley perched on the end of the bed, looking around the place with that odd expression still on her face. “I think I’d like to wear my old things. They should still fit. And I think wearing your things would just highlight everywhere that I…fall short. You know,” she said, gesturing vaguely at herself. 

Aziraphale sat gingerly on the bed beside her. “You don’t fall short. Nothing about you could ever fall short, Crowley,” she said gently. For all their hugs and hand-holding and linked arms earlier, now that they’d let go of each other it felt like it would take an awful lot of courage to reach over and touch her again. Like if she tried, she’d dissolve into smoke. 

Crowley was gazing down at her knees now. “I know I shouldn’t have left,” she said quietly. She picked absently at a loose thread on her…tights? Stockings? Whatever they were, they made her legs look terribly long. 

“We can talk about it when we’re not covered in coffee, dear,” Aziraphale said firmly. She reached over to pull open a drawer, poking through it until her fingers landed on black silk. She hadn’t touched them in a long time, but they were still as soft as ever. “You can change in the bathroom if you like.” 

Crowley took the pyjamas. For a moment she just gazed at them, letting the material run through her fingers. But she shook herself out of it and stood up, then hesitated again. “Can you unzip me?” she asked, looking over her shoulder at Aziraphale. 

And wasn’t that a question and a half?

Aziraphale ignored the way her hands were shaking as she reached up to brush Crowley’s hair aside and unzip the dress, revealing inch after inch of smooth pale skin interrupted only by the clasp of a black bra. 

Crowley probably wore lovely underwear. All pretty black lacy things. Nothing like Aziraphale’s beige and white Marks & Spencer bras. 

She’d never thought about Crowley’s underwear before. But now certainly wasn’t the time to be thinking of it. They’d barely been reunited ten minutes, and Aziraphale’s mind had run amok. “There you go! All unzipped,” she said, her voice overly loud and cheerful in the quiet of the bedroom. 

Crowley didn’t seem to notice. She slipped into the little bathroom and closed the door behind her, and Aziraphale had a few moments to herself. She felt like she should be doing something significant, but she didn’t know what, so instead she just wriggled out of her coffee-stained clothes and into her own pyjamas. A pale blue flannel set with daisies all over them. Decidedly unglamorous. But they were cosy and warm and clean, and that was all she needed. 

She knocked gently on the bathroom door to let Crowley know that she would be in the living room, then she trotted off to sort their things out. She put their drinks nicely on the coffee table, and cut the scone in half lengthways and then widthways so they each had a piece. She put butter in the middle, then settled on the sofa, listening out for Crowley noises. 

What if Crowley decided she didn’t want to be back, actually, and climbed out of the window? The logical voice in Aziraphale’s brain reminded her that it would leave her dangling from a first floor window in the middle of Soho. Probably not the case. 

Still, though. It gave her a lovely warm fuzzy feeling to see Crowley come slinking from the direction of the bedroom, her edges somehow softened now that she was in pyjamas. 

Aziraphale had seen her wearing them plenty of times. Hundreds, probably. They hung differently on her frame now, but it was nice to have a familiar piece of Crowley slotting into place. 

“I got a scone. From where you used to work,” Aziraphale offered, gesturing to the plate on the table. 

Crowley picked it up and curled up beside Aziraphale, her knees just about brushing her thighs where they sat. Aziraphale wanted to touch her properly and make sure she was real, but for now, she stayed where she was, her scone keeping her hands busy.

Then a thought struck her. 

“Were you planning on going to the cafe across the road and not coming to see me?” she asked before she could stop herself. It had come out quite accusatory. Not the gentle conversation starter she’d intended. 

But Crowley now made a face that was intimately familiar to Aziraphale. A bit sheepish, but certainly not regretful. “I was planning on sitting in the window and watching the shop,” she said.

Aziraphale frowned at her.

“Not like a stalker! To look out for you. I tried coming in. Door was locked. Went around the back and looked like some kind of creep lurking around for ages. Thought I might as well wait somewhere nicer than the alley,” she explained. “You must have slipped into the cafe when I was still waiting round the back.”

“I might have had a heart attack if I’d come round the back and seen you lurking at the door,” Aziraphale said wistfully. She could hardly believe she had Crowley here on the sofa. Looking at her made tears spring to her eyes, and she realised that it was stupid to stay away from her. The past sixteen years had been evidence enough that life was too short not to be bold. 

She shuffled closer to Crowley until there was hardly any distance between them at all and she could rest her head against her shoulder. “I really did miss you, Crowley,” she whispered, relieved that her voice sounded a lot less wobbly than she felt. 

“I wanted to come back,” Crowley said quietly. She pressed her nose into Aziraphale’s hair, and Aziraphale never wanted to move. “Wanted to come back as soon as I left. But I was scared. Thought you’d…” she trailed off and waved a hand vaguely. 

“You thought I’d react badly,” Aziraphale said. It didn’t really need to be said, but she wanted to be as clear as possible. Even more than that, she wanted to wrap Crowley up in her arms as tight as she possibly could but didn’t want to scare her off so soon.

Crowley was quiet for a moment. “My parents weren’t happy. First they just said I should have been old enough to know better. Got angrier when I didn’t pack it in.” 

Aziraphale knew perfectly well that Crowley was downplaying it, but she wouldn’t make her go into detail now. “Did you tell them before or after you left?” 

“Told them the day after I left yours. I know it’s stupid, but I sort of used them as a litmus test. If they reacted well I’d have probably told you,” Crowley said softly. She’d balanced her scone on the arm of the sofa and folded her arms across herself, and she looked awfully small. “Should have told you first. Obviously.”

They both had regrets, naturally, but they could think about those later. For now, Aziraphale snaked one arm around Crowley. She’d never been good at resisting temptation. “Have they come around at all?” she asked gently. 

“Dad died a few years after. Tried to go to his funeral but mum said she didn’t want me there if it wasn’t as her son,” Crowley said. Her voice was measured as if she’d practised this particular speech before. “Got his old car, though. If there’s life after death he’s probably raging that his transgender daughter’s driving that old thing around.”

That bit didn’t sound rehearsed, and it took Aziraphale by surprise enough that it made her snort. She covered her mouth quickly and squeezed Crowley’s waist. “Sorry. I’m really sorry about your dad,” she said as seriously as she could.

Crowley waved a hand dismissively. “Not like we were ever that close. And even less so in the last few years,” she said. She twisted to look Aziraphale in the eye, and it was only then that she realised how close together they were sitting. “Missed making you snort. At least you don’t try and pretend you don’t do it anymore.” 

“Well. It wasn’t a very nice sound for an eligible young lady to be making, was it? I think I’m rather past trying to look and sound pretty,” Aziraphale said with a shrug. There wasn’t any sadness in her voice. Far from it, in fact. Just acceptance. 

Crowley had the oddest expression on her face. Aziraphale thought she’d seen it a few times before: when they were in Paris together, when they’d danced together in their respective flats, and maybe at their school dance. It wasn’t one she could put a name to, though. 

“You’ve never had to try, angel,” Crowley said simply, and it felt like a freight train had hit Aziraphale in the chest. 

That pet name, and Crowley looking at her like that, and saying something so sweet. They all came together and made the light shift infinitesimally but just enough to make something very obvious become very clear. 

She loved Crowley. 

She always had loved her as a friend, of course. From the moment she’d been given that little shortbread triangle on the school playground. Now it was as clear as day that she loved her in every other way as well. And, perhaps more importantly, she was fairly sure that Crowley loved her as well. Enough to punch Gabriel in the face when he made fun of her for being fat, and letting her share her chips when they forgot to put vinegar on Aziraphale’s, and countless other little things over the years.

It probably also helped that Aziraphale was very gay and now Crowley was very much a woman.

“You okay?” Crowley asked, and it made Aziraphale realise that she’d been staring at her in silence for a moment too long.

“Tickety boo!” Aziraphale agreed, and her voice was suddenly too loud for the room. “I forgot to say, dear. Happy anniversary,” she said. She always felt awkward when she talked and talked to fill a silence, but she could never seem to stop herself. At least now she wasn’t saying anything totally irrelevant. “Forty years! Can you believe it?”

“Forty years indeed,” she agreed, and before Aziraphale could prepare herself, Crowley was winding her arms around Aziraphale’s shoulders. She was warm and soft and Aziraphale had no choice but to press her face into Crowley’s neck, breathing her in. 

In a very slightly different universe, maybe they’d be celebrating a different anniversary. The anniversary of their first kiss. Maybe even a wedding anniversary. 

As tempting as it was to turn her head and kiss her, Aziraphale resisted. She’d only just come back into her life, not even an hour ago. The absolute last thing she needed was to scare her off again so soon. She barely even knew this version of her best friend, but that was something that could be easily fixed, so she tucked herself up more securely against Crowley, trying her best not to feel self-conscious of her boobs or her stomach or thighs. 

“We’ve got plenty to catch up on,” she said, balancing her scone in her lap and taking a small bite to try and settle her electric nerves. 

As soon as her nerves settled, though, Crowley slid her half of the scone onto Aziraphale’s plate and set them off again. She’d forgotten exactly how eager Crowley had always been to dote on her, and it made her feel awfully special. 

And she kept feeling special all afternoon long. While Crowley told her all about what she’d been doing for the past decade and a half, she stroked Aziraphale’s hair and hugged her tight, and they kept somehow getting closer and closer to each other despite there being next to no space left between them. 

* * *

As afternoon turned into evening, Aziraphale rather settled into the idea of having Crowley back. They’d caught each other up on their lives (even though Crowley had had a much busier time than Aziraphale), and after all of that, they’d spent the afternoon chatting as easily as they always had. At some point, Crowley had gone out to the Bentley wrapped up in one of Aziraphale's coats to retrieve some of her things. A change of clothes, some makeup, various bits and bobs. Crowley had called them optimistic provisions.

When night fell, Aziraphale lit some candles around the living room, and Crowley looked…well. It wasn’t often she was lost for words, but she couldn’t think of any that would be good enough to describe her. The candlelight turned her hair even more fiery than it already was, and even after spending the afternoon curled up on the sofa, it fell in such beautiful waves. Quite the opposite of Aziraphale’s own chin-length puff of curls.

Because she’d been feeling indulgent, she’d let her fingers brush through Crowley’s hair as she passed behind the sofa. It was soft and silky and it had taken everything in Aziraphale to resist playing with it for the rest of the night. 

She didn’t, though. They’d done the traditional thing and ordered a takeaway as they made a good dent in Aziraphale’s nice wine collection. 

By the time they both fell into bed, it was well past midnight, and there was a pleasant buzz in Aziraphale’s head. Enough of a buzz that when she rolled onto her side to see Crowley beside her, it made her heart leap. 

“This wasn’t how I expected the day to go,” Aziraphale whispered. Saturday night partygoers were making a decent amount of noise in the street below, but it still felt like she might shatter something precious if she spoke at full volume. 

“I didn’t know if you’d want to talk to me,” Crowley murmured. She’d pulled the blankets right up to her chin so she was just a nose, a pair of eyes, and a shock of red hair. “Didn’t think I’d end up here.”

Under the covers, Aziraphale reached over to squeeze her arm. “I’m so glad you came back, Crowley,” she said, letting her hand linger on her arm. “I didn’t think I’d ever see you again. Not that I’d ever get over you. I’m just glad you’re alright.”

Crowley covered Aziraphale’s hand with her own. It was brief, but her hand was warm and soft and Aziraphale never wanted her to let go. She did, of course, but she remained close. “Glad I came back,” she said as she settled into the bed. Her eyes were already closed, and Aziraphale was almost too distracted with admiring her to listen to what she was saying. “I thought you’d be married. Maybe have children.”

“I suppose I never found the right person,” Aziraphale murmured. And with that hanging in the air between them, she rolled over to curl up on her side facing away from Crowley. She’d never get to sleep if she spent all night gazing at her. “Goodnight, dear girl. Just let me know if you need anything.”

Crowley hummed an affirmative, and Aziraphale didn’t hear anything else from her. 

Usually, she’d sit up and read for a good while, but whenever Crowley slept over when they were younger, she’d be asleep and snoring within minutes. She certainly didn’t want to turn a light on and start flicking pages all night long. It had been enough time since she’d shared her bed that Aziraphale was over-analysing her every movement, worrying that she was breathing too loudly or moving her legs too much under the covers. 

Crowley was a warm weight beside her on the mattress, though, and even if she worried about keeping her awake, Aziraphale liked having her there. In fact, she thought she should maybe stay awake just to make the most of it. 

She soon rolled over to face Crowley, and on her way, she could have sworn she saw Crowley’s eyes snap shut. She kept watching her face, and soon she was reasonably certain that Crowley was awake. Her face wasn’t as relaxed as it should be, and her breathing was far too shallow. 

She kept watching her face intently enough that she didn’t notice Crowley’s hand snaking towards her. She moved slowly and silently until her fingertips brushed against Aziraphale’s. 

Her breath hitched in her throat.

Even with her eyes closed and in the dark, Aziraphale could read Crowley like a book. She’d spent a good portion of her life wearing sunglasses, and Aziraphale had gotten used to reading her expression without using her eyes: the little crease between her eyebrows, the twist of her mouth, the wrinkles in her forehead. It was all very telling.

Without letting herself stop to think about it, Aziraphale curled her fingers around Crowley’s. 

Crowley’s eyes were still closed, but there was a little smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. Aziraphale thought it might be the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen. She was certain Crowley would be able to hear the thudding of her heart in her chest. 

She reached over with her free hand to tuck Crowley’s hair behind her ear and left it to linger there for a moment. She was so warm, and her hair was soft, and tucking it back revealed her lovely sharp cheekbones. 

When Aziraphale tried to pull her hand away, Crowley’s suddenly shot up and held it there. In fact, if anything, she only pressed it closer to her face. 

Aziraphale was too stunned to do anything. Then she started worrying that Crowley was actually asleep and she might be unknowingly contributing to a dream she might be having, but when she tried to gently wiggle her hand free, Crowley opened one eye. 

Even in the dark, it was twinkling. 

She’d changed a lot over the years. She’d grown a good two feet, had a lot more lines on her face, and now she was a different gender. But they were the same eyes she’d fallen in love with forty years ago. 

She paused. 

Never in all her years had she thought those words in that order, but now that they were there, they were impossible to ignore. 

She was in love with Crowley. Of course she was. And she had been since before she really understood what love was. 

“You okay?” Crowley whispered, her eyebrows drawing together, and Aziraphale realised that she was tearing up. 

Aziraphale made some indistinct motions with her head and squeezed Crowley’s fingers tight. “Just glad to have you back,” she whispered back. Part of her wanted to go and stick her head out the window to get some fresh air, but she couldn’t bear to be another centimetre away from Crowley. She shuffled closer and took her hand away from Crowley’s face so that she could wrap it around her middle. 

Crowley seemed to melt into the contact, both eyes falling shut again. She slid her arm around Aziraphale’s neck and squeezed her fingers. 

They were lying close enough now that they were nearly nose to nose. Their knees were touching, and Aziraphale could feel the curve of her stomach pressed against the flatness of Crowley’s. 

Crowley tilted her head until that their noses were pressed together. 

Aziraphale could feel her breath against her lips. 

She couldn’t seem to stop herself. Maybe it was the wine, or the emotions careening around in her head, but she tipped her head to close the distance between them. Her lips met Crowley’s for the briefest of moments, and then she came to her senses. 

This wasn’t the time to be doing things like that. The last thing she needed was to scare Crowley off and lose her again. 

She pulled back, eyes wide. 

Crowley’s eyes were open again, but their faces were too close together for Aziraphale to read her expression.

“Sorry,” Aziraphale whispered. She didn’t let go of Crowley but tried to shuffle so that they weren’t pressed together quite so much. 

Crowley didn’t let her, though. If anything, she only tightened her hold around Aziraphale’s neck. “Don’t apologise.”

“I didn’t ask you, though. If you wanted a kiss,” Aziraphale said weakly. 

“What if I do want one?” Crowley asked, raising one eyebrow. 

Aziraphale didn’t know what she was supposed to say to that. She had the funniest feeling in her stomach all of a sudden like she’d just been driven over a humpback bridge. 

Crowley was smirking, one eyebrow raised as if to challenge Aziraphale. 

That set her mind. Aziraphale had never backed down from a challenge from Crowley, and she didn’t intend to start now. 

She leaned in slowly, her eyes only leaving Crowley’s to glance down at her lips. She gave her every opportunity to pull away, but the only move Crowley made was to tilt her head sideways so that their noses wouldn’t bump. 

And then Aziraphale found herself kissing Crowley again. This time it was gentle and slow and warm, and after a few moments, she felt Crowley’s fingers threading through her hair. 

It was almost overwhelming. She could feel the warmth of Crowley’s skin through her thin silk pyjamas, and her hair was brushing Aziraphale’s hand where it was splayed against her back. 

When they parted, they held eye contact for a few moments. 

Then Crowley’s shoulders shook. Her eyes scrunched up at the corners the way they always did when she was smiling properly. 

Aziraphale had never been able to stop herself from smiling when she saw Crowley looking like that, so her own smile grew as well, and before long they were giggling, then Crowley poked Aziraphale in the side which made her laugh properly, and they both became rather useless. 

Aziraphale rolled onto her back, and Crowley draped herself over her body so that she could press her face into the crook of her neck. It made Aziraphale self-conscious of her double chin and the roundness of her shoulders, but Crowley seemed comfortable, and she wasn’t about to move her. Especially not when she was still shaking with laughter. 

Because she couldn’t stop herself, she looped her arms around Crowley again, letting her chin rest against the top of her head. “Are you alright?” she whispered. She could still feel Crowley’s lips against her own. 

“Never better,” Crowley murmured, and Aziraphale could have sworn she felt her press a little kiss against her neck. 

They didn’t say anything else after that. They shuffled around so that Crowley wasn’t lying on top of Aziraphale anymore, but soon Crowley’s breath evened out and before long she was snoring softly. 

It was terribly sweet. Before long, Aziraphale drifted off to the sound of her snores. 

* * *

The next morning, Aziraphale woke up to an empty bed. 

When she remembered everything from the previous day, her heart clenched. Maybe Crowley had left again. Maybe Aziraphale hadn’t been what she remembered, and she’d left in the night to try and spare her feelings. 

The fear combined with her hangover wasn’t the most pleasant thing she’d ever experienced. She shuffled out of bed and took a deep breath. “Crowley?” she called. 

“Kitchen!” a voice called back, and it felt like cool water being poured over Aziraphale’s head in the best possible way. 

When she left the bedroom, she was confronted with the most delightful smell. It was something slightly sweet, cinnamony, and pleasant. “You didn’t have to make breakfast, dear girl,” she said fondly. 

Crowley somehow looked more beautiful than ever. Her hair was beautifully red in the morning sunlight streaming through the window, and she looked just as tall and beautiful and angular as she always had. “Seemed fair. You provided all the wine and everything last night,” she said with a shrug. 

When Aziraphale approached further, she saw that Crowley was making french toast with fried bananas. “You really are a dear, Crowley. This all looks delicious,” she said, squeezing her shoulder gently. 

Crowley just gave her a fond little smile over her shoulder. “Learned from the best, angel.” 

Aziraphale desperately wanted to kiss her. But she rather panicked: what if last night had just been because of the wine? Or it might have been a dream. A lovely, vivid dream that Aziraphale wanted nothing more than to repeat. 

Standing here fretting about it wouldn’t help, though. Crowley would soon ask what was the matter, and Aziraphale didn’t know what she’d say. So instead, she busied herself with making coffee for the two of them. For herself, she set out milk and sugar, but she knew Crowley preferred to drink it black. 

“Do you want me to help with anything?” she asked, her eyes fixed on Crowley’s form as she poked at the food sizzling in the pan. 

Crowley waved a hand. “Sit down. I’ll look after it,” she assured her. 

And Aziraphale did just that. She alternated between watching Crowley and watching the cafetiere, trying to decide whether to bring up the previous night. The last thing she wanted was to bring up something uncomfortable and scare her off. 

She was lost enough in her thoughts that she barely noticed when Crowley put a plate of food down in front of her. “Oh! Thank you. It looks scrumptious,” she said, leaning down to small it. The banana looked perfectly cooked, and the toast was golden brown and crispy-looking. 

“Wine caught up to you?” Crowley teased, sitting herself down opposite Aziraphale. 

That was a suitable excuse. “I think so. I tend to forget I’m not in my twenties anymore,” she agreed, pouring Crowley a mug of coffee in the mug decorated with snakes that she’d favoured in the past. 

“Can’t believe you kept that,” Crowley said, turning the mug around slowly on its coaster. Her expression was wistful, and a bit bittersweet. 

“I suppose it was like your pyjamas, dear. I kept thinking I should get rid of them, but when the time came to throw them out I could never actually do it. I always hoped you’d eventually come back,” Aziraphale explained through a mouthful of banana. 

Even the first mouthful of food immediately made her feel better. 

Breakfast was just as delicious as anticipated, and soon their plates were both empty. Aziraphale insisted on washing up so that Crowley could go and have a shower, but it also meant that Aziraphale had space to take a few deep breaths and calm herself down properly. 

She was stupid to get in a tizzy over this. Crowley was back. Not just for a flying visit. She was back and she wasn’t leaving again. 

(There was still a little voice in the back of her head that said there was always a chance that she could leave again, but she did what she could to ignore it). 

And she was caught up in her thoughts enough that she didn’t even think twice about going into her bedroom. She stared listlessly into the wardrobe, and it felt like she was twenty again, worrying that she might look drab compared to Crowley’s sleek fashions. 

She was caught up enough that she barely noticed the fact that the sound of running water had stopped coming from the bathroom. The thing that caught her attention was the bathroom door opening. 

She whirled around and there was Crowley, wrapped up in a blue and white striped towel. Her hair was slicked back wet, and her eyes looked wide without the dark eyeshadow and mascara. “Used your shampoo. Hope that’s okay,” she said, shifting where she stood. 

She looked uncharacteristically self-conscious, and it made Aziraphale’s heart clench oddly. It was strange to see Crowley looking vulnerable. But then she supposed she hadn’t seen Crowley in anything less than a t-shirt and jeans since they were teenagers. 

“I told you to make yourself at home, didn’t I?” Aziraphale managed to say when her brain kicked into gear again. “You can use whatever you like. No need to ask.” 

Crowley smiled and carefully squatted down to rifle through her bag, and Aziraphale realised she was gawping a bit. 

“Anyway! I’ll leave you to get dressed and everything,” she said, clapping her hands together once. It made Crowley laugh, which seemed like fair payment for being so embarrassing. 

She bustled out of the room, pulling the door shut behind her. Goodness. She’d end up making a real fool of herself if she kept doing this kind of thing. It was bad enough realising that she was in love with Crowley, let alone walking in on her half-naked and getting all red-faced and giggly. 

After what felt like either seconds or eternity, the bedroom door swung open. “I’m decent again,” Crowley said. She was wearing a different black dress to yesterday. This one was just as long but had charming sheer sleeves and shoulders, and Aziraphale thought Crowley looked like she belonged in a film. 

Her hair was still wet, though. Starting to curl at the ends. “Can I dry your hair for you?” she found herself asking. 

Crowley looked taken by surprise but nodded. 

“Right. Okay. Sit on the bed, dear,” Aziraphale said, her heart pounding. Why on earth had she offered that? She always let her own hair dry naturally, and she wasn’t even sure she knew how to dry Crowley’s properly. It was so long, and always felt so silky, and Aziraphale was worried that she’d somehow make it as frizzy and curly as her own. 

She picked up her own hairbrush and started brushing and drying methodically, section by section. As it dried, it developed charming waves. Far neater than Aziraphale’s. 

“Never done this before,” Crowley murmured. She had her hands folded in her lap, legs folded up beneath herself. 

Aziraphale hummed, brushing the mostly-dry sections of Crowley’s hair over her shoulder. “Your hair was never long enough before, darling. It was always dry minutes after you got out the shower,” she said fondly. “I think I could get used to it, though. It’s more fun to brush than my own hair.” 

That made Crowley snort. “I’ll brush yours for you, then. Only fair,” she said firmly. 

“No obligation, dear. It’s a pleasure,” Aziraphale said. She brushed through the last few sections of hair. It was easy to lose herself in the motions, and it was nice not to have to worry for a few minutes. “What would you like to do today?” she asked, then after a moment’s hesitation, added, “Unless you’d like to go home. There’s no pressure.”

Crowley shook her head. It made her hair bounce beautifully. “I’m not leaving until you kick me out, angel.” 

Aziraphale passed the brush through the last section one more time. “That won’t be happening anytime soon, Crowley. You know that,” she said, and she couldn’t resist the urge to pass her arms around Crowley’s middle in a quick hug. 

Crowley leaned back into the contact, tipping her head back against Aziraphale’s shoulder. “Can I take you out for dinner tonight? Since it’s our fortieth and everything.”

“You know you don’t have to do that, Crowley,” Aziraphale said fondly. “Last night was lovely. I’m just happy to have you back, I don’t need a fancy dinner.” 

“Don’t have to, but I want to. You deserve it,” Crowley said simply, and Aziraphale could hardly argue with that. She wanted to crane around and kiss her cheek, but maybe now wasn’t the time. Not when they were making grand plans for the day. 

Crowley soon sat up straight and smoothed her hands down the front of her dress. “Anyway. I’ll leave you to get ready. Then we can…do whatever you want. Your choice, my treat,” she said, leaving no room for argument. She patted Aziraphale’s knee then swung herself off the bed. She detoured to pick up her bag, then she was gone from the room with a little wave. 

Aziraphale didn’t know how she was to cope. Now that she knew how it felt to kiss Crowley, she wasn’t sure she’d ever be able to stop thinking about it. 

* * *

Their day was the loveliest Aziraphale had had in a long time. Crowley took her to all of her favourite places – they had a coffee in St James’ Park, got some macarons from Hermé, and wandered around Soho until their feet ached. 

Every single time Aziraphale looked over and saw Crowley by her side, it sent a little thrill through her. Every time Crowley slipped her hand into the crook of Aziraphale’s arm, every time she called her angel, every time she caught sight of their reflections in a shop window. It was intoxicating. 

Then evening fell, and they headed back to the bookshop before dinner. Crowley produced a curling wand – she kept all manner of things in the Bentley, as it turned out – and set to work on her hair. Aziraphale, meanwhile, changed into a beautiful dress that Crowley had insisted on buying for her. It was a lovely seafoam colour, and it was made of light material that seemed to float out around her whenever she moved. 

She draped her jacket over her arm and wandered out to meet Crowley who was curled up on the sofa and fussing with some makeup brushes. In this dress, she thought perhaps that they might look quite a charming couple. 

“Do you have any makeup that isn’t so…dark?” Aziraphale asked, gazing at her face in the mirror beside the door. She liked her face perfectly well without makeup, but it was a special occasion. 

Crowley poked through her bag for a moment before pulling out an imposing-looking eyeshadow palette. “Course I do,” she agreed, sitting on the sofa and patting the space beside her. 

Aziraphale trotted over without a second thought, settling herself down beside Crowley. The eyeshadows were mostly dark, but there were some pale pinks and blues at one end of the palette. 

“Close your eyes,” Crowley said, and Aziraphale did so. A moment later, she felt the pad of Crowley’s finger smoothing some kind of lotion over her eyelid. “Primer,” she said by way of explanation, then Aziraphale felt the soft sweep of a brush. Crowley worked quickly and methodically, and when Aziraphale opened one eye, it was to see Crowley with narrowed eyes and her tongue poking out of her mouth. It was almost too sweet for her to handle.

Crowley swiped her thumbs beneath Aziraphale’s eyes, then made a pleased little noise. “There. See what you think.”

Aziraphale opened her eyes and was confronted with her reflection in a little compact mirror. Her eyelids were covered in a subtle, pale blue sheen. A bit more green on the outside corners, it somehow managed to both match her dress and bring out her eyes. “Crowley, it’s lovely,” she breathed. “You’re terribly good at all this.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Crowley muttered, waving a hand as she slid the makeup back into the depths of her bag. “Had to learn. Don’t pass half as well without it,” she said simply. 

It threw Aziraphale for a loop. Crowley had said it so simply, but it was a whole facet of being a woman that she’d always taken for granted. The choice not to wear makeup was a simple one: she didn’t enjoy putting it on, and she didn’t like the idea of wearing it every day and developing a negative opinion of her natural face. 

She’d never considered that Crowley had no choice. That she had to wear it for her own safety.

It made her feel bad, but before she could think of anything worthwhile to say, a finger hooked under her chin and Aziraphale’s heart skipped a beat. “Oi. No need to look like that, angel. Just a fact of life,” she said, and she left her finger there for long enough to raise her eyebrows at Aziraphale with a fond little smile before letting go. “We should get going if we want to be there in time for our table.”

Aziraphale slipped her feet into her nicest shoes – a lovely pair of leather things she’d bought in Italy once when she’d been with Crowley. When she returned to the front door, Crowley towered over her even more than she already had: she’d changed into an imposing pair of heels with red soles. 

Aziraphale would definitely feel like the luckiest woman in the world to have Crowley on her arm. 

They got a taxi, and before long arrived at the Ritz. For the first time in a long time, Aziraphale didn’t feel self-conscious as they stepped into the foyer. Usually, she felt plain and frumpy and self-conscious of her size, but with Crowley’s hand in the crook of her elbow, she felt glamorous. Like she might actually deserve a place in a world of beautiful and dazzling things.

When they were shown to their table, Aziraphale pressed her hand over Crowley’s. “You clever thing, is this where we sat last time?” 

“Wasn’t sure if you’d remember,” Crowley said, smiling sheepishly as they sat down. She always did that – she’d do the loveliest, most thoughtful things, then act surprised when Aziraphale noticed them. 

They ordered a frivolous bottle of wine and had made a good dent in it before their food even came, which was a dangerous move. Aziraphale had to spend every spare moment forcing herself not to do anything stupid like professing her love for Crowley. 

She managed to get through the meal without incident, but then came pudding. 

As always, Crowley didn’t order anything for herself. Aziraphale got a chocolate soufflé and tried not to feel self-conscious as Crowley gazed fondly at her. “Would you like to try some?” she asked, waving a forkful in her general direction. 

Crowley looked like she was about to say no, but then she got that little glint in her eye. She leaned a fraction closer to Aziraphale and opened her mouth, not breaking eye contact for even a moment. 

“You’re ridiculous, dear,” Aziraphale grumbled, but she fed her the bite of souffle nonetheless. She only hoped she wasn’t staring too obviously at the way her lips passed over the spoon. Her lipstick had worn off slightly in the middle, and Aziraphale wanted desperately to kiss the rest of it off. 

“You love me anyway,” Crowley said, and even though it wasn’t an unusual thing for them to say to each other, it felt as if it had more weight behind it today. Crowley looked away almost immediately, her eyes fixed in the general direction of the grand piano. 

Her cheeks were dusted pink, and Aziraphale found herself wanting to kiss those as well to see if they were warm. She was seized by a moment of boldness – she reached over to turn Crowley’s face towards her, and left her hand resting against her cheek. “I do love you, Crowley,” she said softly. 

Internally, she was freaking out just a bit. That hadn’t been the kind of fond little declaration she usually made. 

Crowley was watching her with wide eyes. Apparently neither of them had expected this little show of bravery from Aziraphale. 

Just as quickly as it had come, though, it disappeared. Aziraphale felt stupid even as she did it, but she patted Crowley’s cheek before dropping her hand. Patted it! Anything else would have been better. Crowley seemed amused, though, and only leaned closer to Aziraphale as she finished her pudding. 

She finished all too soon, then they finished the wine, and Crowley reluctantly let Aziraphale pay for half of the meal. Since it was warm enough outside, they ended up walking home rather than getting another taxi. 

They were both a bit unsteady on their feet, and before they were even halfway, Aziraphale’s arms were flung around Crowley’s waist. 

“Were you always this much of a lightweight?” Crowley teased, snaking one arm around Aziraphale’s shoulders. She hardly sounded sober, though. She was far more giggly than a sober Crowley would ever be. 

Aziraphale snorted. “Remember when we went to that concert? You had a shot of sambuca and threw up barely five minutes later,” she teased. 

“That wasn’t the alcohol, that was the taste,” Crowley said defensively. It was a tiff they’d had hundreds of times, and time hadn’t dampened it in the slightest. “What about the time you had all that tequila?”

“That wasn’t me being a lightweight, dear. If I were a lightweight I wouldn’t have been able to handle more than five shots,” Aziraphale said primly. 

Crowley laughed brightly squeezed her tight, and Aziraphale had no choice but to squeeze back. In the end, holding onto each other quite so tightly only made it a much slower walk home.

There was enough of a silence and enough of a fuzziness in her head that Aziraphale built up the courage to say, “I was awfully scared when I woke up to an empty bed this morning, Crowley.”

Crowley squeezed her tighter. “Sorry. Should’ve thought about that,” she muttered, her eyebrows drawing together. 

“No, no. Hush. It was awfully good of you to make breakfast. Otherwise I’d have rolled out of bed and just had some poached eggs or something,” Aziraphale assured her. The last thing she’d wanted was to make Crowley feel guilty; she only wanted to let her know how much she liked her being there. 

“Only you’d say ‘just poached eggs’,” Crowley teased, and it was a relief to hear the smile back in her voice. “Do you…well. Don’t think we drank that much. But do you remember everything?” she asked haltingly. 

Aziraphale let herself focus on the gentle slant of Crowley’s waist and the texture of her jacket beneath her fingertips. “I believe so,” she agreed. 

Crowley was quiet. 

“I’m sorry, Crowley,” Aziraphale burst out when the silence became too much. “I shouldn’t have kissed you like that. Not in the middle of the night when we were both a bit drunk and half-asleep, and when you’d only just come back. It was stupid of me, and I don’t want it to…ruin us. I don’t want to lose you again.” It all came out in a rush, and to Aziraphale’s horror, she felt hot tears sliding down her cheeks. 

They’d stopped walking, and Crowley was staring at her like she’d grown another head. 

She took Aziraphale’s face in her hands and when they met eyes, Aziraphale let herself feel the tiniest little flutter of hope. Crowley looked determined and nervous but Aziraphale didn’t get much longer to analyse the rest of her expression because Crowley was kissing her. 

She was kissing her right in the middle of the pavement where everyone could see. Where good-spirited Sunday night partygoers could cheer at them, and even when she was kissing Crowley, Aziraphale was sure she felt the tip of a bold pigeon’s wing skim the top of her head.

When they pulled apart, Crowley didn’t let go of her face. “I love you, Aziraphale,” she said breathlessly. “I love you and I wish I’d never left because things would have been a hell of a lot easier if I’d stayed. And I wouldn’t have hurt you. I’ll never forgive myself for that.” 

By the end, her voice was tight and there were tears in her eyes, her bottom lip trembling. 

Aziraphale felt she had no choice but to pull Crowley in for the tightest hug she could muster, pressing her face into her shoulder in a futile attempt to hide that she was crying. But she very quickly realised she was being stupid.

Now she could kiss Crowley. Apparently that was an option. 

She looked up and beamed at Crowley through her tears. They probably both looked quite the mess, but she didn’t care. She leaned up on her tiptoes and kissed her, and Crowley practically melted into it, her arms coming around Aziraphale’s middle. 

They’d always fit perfectly. Even though Aziraphale had gone up a fair few dress sizes since they’d last seen each other, Crowley could still hold her tight. Maybe they’d just always fit together like they were meant to be. 

Aziraphale found herself laughing into the kiss when she thought that Crowley’s arms would keep getting longer and longer to accommodate her if she got any bigger. It wasn’t even particularly funny, but she wasn’t sure she’d ever been quite as happy as she was in that moment. 

Crowley was smiling against her lips, and when they pulled back to catch their breath, they barely lasted a moment before starting to laugh. 

They didn’t let go of each other, though. If anything, they only clung to each other tighter, both of their laughs ringing in their ears. And for the first time in around sixteen years, Aziraphale felt absolutely certain that everything was going to be okay. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for being patient! This took longer than expected to write because…well, it turned out to be a lot longer than expected. 
> 
> Thank you for the lovely comments on the first chapter, and I hope you enjoy this one just as much if not more. The final chapter is more of an epilogue, but it should appear much quicker than this one did!

**Author's Note:**

> wanted to have a little bit of mystery so i shall update the tags and such when the next chapter comes along 
> 
> (or perhaps this isn't intriguing at all and nobody will care. either way, i love comments and they spur me on to no end, and thank you for reading, if indeed you still are!)


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